Nine Eleven

7 Deadly Sins

Excerpt from7 Deadly Sins

It becomes your soul: that sucking, itch, that mortal titter; blushing
under all the layers of your life, it knows you --that you're not
good enough for yourself. And so, the Oz contraption,

the trick transparency, the only out: to impress yourself, on others,
with yourself. It's done inside with props, with mirror mind pools,
two-way, sylvan, with a funhouse warp, in which to gaze--triumphant,

the glory in your eye, presuming all the world is eager
for every nuance you contrive. But impressive others won't impress;
they're there inside, behind the mirror, peeping out at little you

buffooning, seeing nothing of the image of yourself you see,
only posturings and mediocrity. You know their eyes:
even you can see that who you are humiliates who you want to be,

that in comparisons like these there's nothing left of you
but ironies, but pretensions at self-love which are self-mockeries.